Lurching from side to side, the ship pressed on, as we wallowed in water up to our knees.
“The rocks! Rocks ahead!” I heard a lookout shout.
Before long two massive fingers of wet gray rock loomed up in front of us, and I thought for certain our ship would collide with them. I held my breath, shut my eyes and murmured a prayer.
But before the worst could happen, I felt the ship buck sharply under me, seeming to rear up like a stubborn horse. I opened my eyes and saw that we were caught in the backwash coming off the jagged rocks. It was this that had prevented our ship from breaking to bits against the giant obstacles in our path.
Soon after this I heard the cry of “Land ho” from the sailors, and through the thick veil of rain, saw Plymouth harbor coming into view.
Drenched by the rain, my gown and cloak soaked and ruined, I went ashore on the arm of the Count de Cabra, as the townsfolk of Plymouth cheered me. They too were wet to the skin, and had been waiting many hours to receive me. Knowing this, and grateful for their welcome, I wanted to thank them. I asked the count to lift me up onto a low rock wall where I could be seen and, I hoped, heard. I am small of stature but my voice is low and carries well.
“Good people of Plymouth!” I began, doing my best to recall the English words Master Reveles had been teaching me over the past several years and aware that I spoke them with a Castilian accent.
“I thank you all,” I went on, “I bring you greeting from the court of Spain.” As I watched, I could see the surprise—indeed astonishment—on the faces of my listeners. The Infanta of Spain was, after a fashion, speaking in their tongue.
“I am glad to be among you,” I said. “I pray for your wealth and happiness.”
I could think of nothing more. But I had no need to go on, for my hearers burst into shouts of acclaim.
“God bless the Princess of Wales!” came the cry. “God bless her sweet face!”
Just then the clouds parted, and a thin ray of sunlight shone down on the wave-frothed waters of the harbor. I could not help but smile at the sight, cheered by the warmth of the welcome I was being given, certain that this break in the clouds was an omen of good things to come.
I was told that the king and Prince Arthur would be meeting me soon, perhaps in London, the renowned capital of my new country of England. As soon as we were able, we resumed our journey, traveling toward the capital along roads muddy from the fall rains. So this is England, I thought, this misty green countryside with its gentle sloping grass-covered hills and clear running streams, rocky beaches and overcast skies.
I observed the prosperous-looking villages tucked between the hills, smoke rising from their roofs, animals grazing in their common pasturelands. Villagers came out to see us as we passed by, excited and full of well wishes. They were not like the ragged, half-starved, sun-baked peasants of Castile. These English peasants, shouting and waving eagerly, were well fed and rosy-cheeked, and looked to be in good spirits.
We were not far from London when a messenger rode up with an urgent announcement for the Count de Cabra. The king and Prince Arthur were on their way and would meet us at the palace of the Bishop of Bath.
“But they must not!” was Doña Elvira’s horrified cry. “She must be veiled! She cannot be seen by her future relatives until after the wedding!”
It was the custom throughout my parents’ realms that the bride be shielded from view until the moment she became a wife in the eyes of God, through repeating her wedding vows. But that moment would be weeks away, and I was impatient.
“Doña Elvira!” I burst out. “I must see my prince! I must see Prince Arthur! I have been waiting so very long.”
Her face set and grim, my duenna took me firmly by my arm and fastened on my veil. A heavy, thick veil such as Moorish women wear, and was quite often worn at my parents’ court. I could barely see through it.
“There,” she said. “Now you are properly attired to meet His Highness King Henry—and his son!”
I heard the sound of muffled laughter, and saw that it was Maria Juana, covering her mouth with her hand.
We rode on the short distance to Dogmersfield, where the bishop’s palace was, and where we were expecting to spend the night. A large suite of rooms had been prepared for me and my women, with a spacious bedchamber and several anterooms. Doña Elvira hurried me inside, and shut the wide door, standing with her back to it as if to guard me.
It was not long before we heard a pounding of fists on the far side of the thick oak door.
Doña Elvira shrieked—but did not move. She braced herself.
The pounding came again.
“His Majesty King Henry sends greetings and requires the Infanta Catalina to join him for a collation in the great hall.”
“She—she is resting after her long journey,” Doña Elvira answered. “She cannot come.”
“Waken her!”
“She—is not prepared. She will require time—to bathe and dress.”
“One hour,” came the voice on the other side of the door. “One hour. No more.”
We heard the sound of boots—more than one pair of boots—passing along the corridor. Then silence.
I removed the heavy veil.
“So, the king wishes to inspect the goods he has bought before he lets his son marry them!” It was Maria Juana, speaking more boldly and rudely than ever before.
I glanced at her, and would have slapped her had Doña Elvira not been too quick. In two steps Doña Elvira was slapping Maria Juana’s fleshy cheeks and threatening to send her back to Spain.
“Wretched girl! Wretched daughter of a miserable whore! If you dare speak so again you will be whipped!”
Maria Juana, tears of anger in her eyes, ran from the room.
Meanwhile there was another knock on the door, this time a much softer, more polite knock.
“No,” Doña Elvira responded firmly, “the infanta cannot come now. She is resting—I mean bathing.”
We heard a boy’s voice say, “Pardon, mistress. I am David, King Henry’s valet. I bring the king’s apologies, and a gift for the infanta.”
It was a gentle, melodious voice. Something in the gentleness of it unlatched my heart.
“Cannot the king’s valet come in, Doña Elvira?” I pleaded. “Surely there is nothing in our old Castilian customs to prevent a mere valet from seeing me? Especially as he has brought me a gift.”
Doña Elvira looked suspicious, but then relented. “I suppose not,” she said after a time. She gave a heavy sigh. Her whole body seemed to sag. The confrontation was sapping her strength.
I called to Maria de Caceres, my dresser. “Maria, will you accompany Doña Elvira to an inner chamber where she can lie down?”
Doña Elvira made only the most feeble of protests as Maria, tactful and empathetic, persuaded her to go with her into another room. When they had gone I went to the heavy oak door and undid the lock. I pulled the door open.
There before me stood a smiling blond boy, amusement in his light blue eyes.
“Infanta Catalina,” he said, holding out a small golden cask.
I recognized him at once. It was Prince Arthur.
* * *
As soon as he stepped across the threshold he took me in his arms and kissed me lightly on the mouth as I had seen the English do.
“I am so very glad to see you—” I started to say, in my accented English, aware that I was blushing, my face hot. No boy had ever kissed me before. Doña Elvira would never have allowed it.
But he put one finger over my lips.
“I am the king’s valet, David. I bring you the king’s gift.” Once again he held out the small chest. “Shall we open it together?”
We smiled at one another, a conspiratorial smile. We sat side by side on a cushioned bench. I couldn’t speak. I was confused, yet overjoyed. All my composure had abandoned me.
“The king is eager to see you,” he began. “He hopes you will join him, as do I. He sends you this toke
n”—he lifted a string of pearls from the chest and fastened them around my neck—“and my mother, I mean the queen, also sends you a token of her love.” He brought from the chest a ring with a large pearl and slipped it onto my finger, very gently.
“Please thank His Majesty for me, David. And Her Majesty the queen as well. And please tell the prince that, at this moment, my heart is full of joy.”
“I think he knows that already, Infanta.”
Once again he reached for my hand and put it to his lips.
Then, before any of my women could interrupt us, he stood and bowed and took his leave.
I called for my servants and quickly bathed and had Maria de Caceres dress me in a gown of russet silk with wide cream-colored sleeves. I knew that the gown flattered me, bringing out the rich auburn shade of my hair and the fairness of my skin. When my hair had been brushed and carefully bound beneath my jeweled headdress, I put on the long string of pearls the king had sent me, looping it twice so that it fell nearly to my waist, and added the pearl ring. I hoped my future parents—for that is how I thought of them, as a second father and mother—would find me acceptable.
While I was dressing Doña Elvira emerged from the antechamber where she had been resting. As I expected, she sputtered and fumed when I told her, calmly and firmly (though inwardly I was anything but calm) that I was going to meet the king as he had requested, and join him for a light meal.
“This is his realm, Doña Elvira. We are not in Spain now, and his word is supreme here. I must learn to adapt and be gracious.”
She tried to argue with me, but I silenced her. Then I made my way, full of excitement, to the great hall.
Over the next few days, while we remained at Dogmersfield, Arthur and I saw each other several times and exchanged a few words under the careful vigilance of others. These were formal meetings, filled with protocols to be observed and restrictions on what we could do or say.
But we also found ways to meet and talk in private, without the constraints of Doña Elvira’s protective presence and without any court formalities. Arthur took pleasure in arranging these quiet meetings, and I, who had never been without the scrutiny not only of my duenna but of my mother, or her servants, or of any of the dozens of members of the royal household, felt liberated from a lifelong burden.
We could not talk for very long, to be sure. And we had to be watchful ourselves, to be certain we were not discovered. But this only added to our enjoyment. We shared a secret, and that brought us even closer together.
“My father would bellow at me if he caught us,” Arthur confided with an almost gleeful tone in his voice. I could believe what he told me, for having dined with King Henry on the afternoon of our arrival I saw how wrathful he could be. His anger was not directed at me, to be sure, but at a servant who displeased him by bringing him a dish of food he disliked.
“Eels! Eels!” he shouted, pushing the platter away.
“These are lampreys, Your Majesty,” was the servant’s cautious reply.
“Eels! Lampreys! Have you no sense? Don’t you know that a king of England once dined on eels, and died the next day?”
His voice rose, his face grew so red it was almost purple. He reached out to strike the servant, but the man was already running from the room. With an oath the king sat down again and ordered the offending platter of lampreys removed. Before long his anger had begun to subside, though all the servants remained tense and no one dared to say a word. The only sound was the hiss and crackle of the fire in the hearth, and now and then the heavy thud of a log falling amid a shower of brilliant sparks.
“I have seen your father’s anger,” I told Arthur. “I hope I never displease him.”
“Ah, but he finds you pleasing enough,” Arthur reassured me. “I am the one he disapproves of. He despairs of me, in fact.”
“Surely not.” How could any father despair of such a son, I wondered. A boy with such wit and charm, such good looks. A boy who would one day be king, but who had no arrogance, none of the thrusting, frowning self-importance that my father and King Henry had.
“He says I will never succeed in the tiltyard. I will never be a champion. I am a poor rider, and cannot wield a heavy lance.”
He looked at me, all the usual amusement in his blue eyes suddenly gone.
“I am not like my brother,” he added with a rueful smile. “He is only ten years old, and already he is stronger than I am. He rides farther and faster—”
“But I am told you have other gifts. You are a fine storyteller.”
At once I saw the gleam in Arthur’s eyes return.
“Yes, yes. I love stories. Tales of the Knights of the Round Table. The books of chivalry. Sir Gawain and Sir Lancelot. The quest for the Holy Grail.”
“If you will write them, tell them anew, I would be eager to read them.”
His smile broadened. “Dear Catherine,” he said, and kissed me. My English name. Not Catalina, but Catherine. It sounded strange to my ears, but said in his gentle voice, it was beautiful.
* * *
I was welcomed to London by a great noise.
Cannons boomed from the Tower, so loudly and so unceasingly that I had to stop my ears. The clamorous welcome of the large crowds gathered along narrow streets cheered me—but nearly deafened me, especially when the heralds and their trumpeters added their shouts and fanfares.
I was quite accustomed to the sound of cannon fire, having spent most of my childhood in encampments of soldiers. But the Tower guns were by far the loudest I had ever heard, and the cries of the Londoners the most strident.
Bells rang out continually in celebration of my arrival, and choristers sang as my procession of horsemen and grandly robed attendants passed; at each of the city conduits, where wine flowed freely and where tables were laid with meats and bread, the eruptions of shouting and laughing made as great a din as I had ever heard.
But the smells! The stinks of London struck me with even greater force than the noise. An awful stench rose from the river Thames, where the bloated bodies of dead animals bobbed in the eddies, and mounds of waste as high as haystacks awaited the arrival of the dung boats. Who could eat fish caught in that putrid river? Who could bathe in that water, or wash clothes in it? Yet Londoners did, and many of them got very sick and died, so I was told, as a result.
There were animals everywhere: sheep and goats being driven to market, fat pigs rooting among the entrails thrown into the road by butchers, stray dogs and lean, hungry-looking cats. The filth from the animals, the odors of the fish market combined with the unsavory stinks from the open drains to overwhelm me and force me to hold my spice-scented pomander under my nose.
Granada was not the sweetest-smelling of cities, I reminded myself (though the gardens of the Alhambra were full of the rich perfumes of jasmine and orange blossom), but it was cleaner and more orderly by far than this noisy, turbulent London, and far more pleasing to the nose.
I thought this—and then I chided myself. For I knew that I must now be loyal to my new land. I must put England first, not Spain. I am Catherine now, I told myself, not Catalina. Catherine, Princess of Wales, not Infanta Catalina.
I looked out at the cheering, waving Londoners and smiled.
* * *
On our wedding day the immense cathedral of St. Paul was crowded, and the spectacle and ceremony were very grand. But two things, and two things only, mattered to me. One made me joyful, and the other made me sad.
I was marrying my dear Arthur, the prince I loved. And my mother was not there to see me wed.
It was a brisk, cold November day and a chill wind blew through the high vaulted arches of the old church. Arthur and I shivered as we stood before the bishop, I in my white silken gown with its full hooped skirt, a white silk veil trimmed in gold and gems covering my face, and Arthur, so handsome in his white silk doublet gleaming with gold.
He looked every bit as happy as I felt, only I noticed that he was limping slightly as he made his way alon
g the raised walkway that led to the altar. I had seen him limp before. He had told me that his left leg was shorter and weaker than his right leg, and that sometimes it hurt.
I tried to put out of my mind the memory of the afternoon, months earlier, when I wore my wedding dress for my mother to see and admire. It was bad luck to do that, so everyone said. Yet I had not known then how delighted I would be with my bridegroom, how fortunate I would feel on this day, when we were joined before God and made husband and wife, with such a vast crowd of witnesses looking on and wishing us well. There was no bad luck evident, only blessings and good wishes, much splendor, and the heavenly sound of singing.
No, there was nothing but good fortune on my wedding day. I said as much that night to my dresser Maria de Caceres as she helped me out of my wedding clothes and prepared me for bed.
“All has gone well today, has it not?”
“It has, my Infanta.”
“You must call me princess now. I am the wife of the Prince of Wales.” I pronounced the words with pride. “I am the Princess of Wales.”
“But you will always be Infanta Catalina as well,” was her stubborn response, as she began removing my headdress and unpinning my hair. I sat before the pier glass, watching my reflection as she removed the pins and let the long thick ropes of hair fall in waves down my back. They gleamed in the firelight as she brushed them, glints of russet and gold shining out of the darker mass.
“My children will be half Spanish, half English,” I mused, partly to myself. “They will learn to speak Castilian, English, Latin and French. I will take them to Spain to visit my mother and father.”
Maria brought my lace-trimmed nightdress and I put it on. I felt excited yet nervous. Soon Arthur would join me and we would become husband and wife in flesh as well as in spirit, bound by the sacrament of marriage. I hoped Arthur would find me pleasing.
The bishop came in, with three attendant priests, and blessed our marriage bed, sprinkling the embroidered velvet counterpane with holy water. When they had gone, Maria surprised me greatly by kissing me swiftly on the cheek.
Before I could punish her for her insolence she said, “Your mother Queen Isabella made me promise to kiss you for her, on your wedding night. You are lovely, little bride. May all go well for you.”
The Spanish Queen: A Novel of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon Page 3
